Pastoral Read Online Free Page B

something between them. It was in
the way Robbie had opened the door and helped her down, the way they had walked
away together. That is all she had seen. Robbie Myers had helped Jane
Richardson down from the cab of his Chevy. But that was enough for an attentive
person. It had occurred to her – no use denying it – to follow the two wherever it was they were off to. But she had not. Instead,
she had stayed in the restaurant, unable to enjoy her food, wondering if what
she had seen was innocent or not.
    Â Â Â Â Â During the days that followed, she had been as discreet as possible. She had
not spoken of what she had witnessed. She had asked only two bland questions:
    Â Â Â Â Â â€“ Was Robbie in Sarnia the other day, Liz?
    and
    Â Â Â Â Â â€“ Liz, are you still friends with Jane Richardson?
    Â Â Â Â Â There was nothing more she could do without meddling. She would have to bite
her tongue and observe. It was either observe or investigate. That is, snoop.
As she considered snooping a vile habit, she did not snoop.

    It isn’t as if Elizabeth was unaware that something lay behind her aunt’s questions. They were asked in such resolutely bland tones, it had been like
hearing a mortician speak. Besides, Elizabeth was sensitive to any mention of
her fiancé, and though she had not thought of Jane Richardson (Robbie’s first love) in a while, hearing Jane’s name brought more than an inkling of the connection between them.
    Â Â Â Â Â Despite her aunt’s careful nonchalance, Elizabeth had been spooked.
    Â Â Â Â Â When she was thoughtful, as she often was in these months before her marriage,
Elizabeth liked to walk. She walked along the fence of her uncle’s sod farm, whatever the season, but in spring she was comforted by the new
grass, the spluttering sprinklers and the sight of the far trees, the point at
which she would usually turn back for home.
    Â Â Â Â Â Days after her aunt questioned her about Robbie and Jane, Elizabeth went out
for a long walk, taking with her the prayer book that had belonged to her
parents. The book was small. As a young girl, she imagined the prayer book had
been made just for her. It had been slightly larger than her palm when she was
eight years old, and thick as three of her small fingers. It was bound in black
leather with, embedded in its cover, a single white pearl that had, somehow and
for years, resisted her efforts to dislodge it. The edges of the book’s pages had been gilded and, inside, it contained hundreds of prayers, prayers
for every imaginable circumstance, including one that was to be said on being
captured by cannibals and another to be said before eating food ‘of dubious provenance.’ Not that she had ever used it for its prayers. She was not devout. Her aunt and
uncle were the devoted ones. From the age at which she had first been made
aware of the idea, ‘God’ had seemed to Elizabeth a shaky proposition. It didn’t help, of course, that if He existed He had murdered her parents. But, really,
there was no deep calculation, no rancour or bitterness involved. She simply
was not convinced or was not yet convinced of God’s existence. The prayer book was a thing she held because her parents had
touched it.
    Â Â Â Â Â The sun was out and doing its best to dry the ground. The clouds were thick and
white, like gouts of clotted cream in a wide blue bowl. The earth smelled of
her uncle’s sod and of cow manure from the next farm over, Mr. Rubie’s, from which, if the air was right, you would occasionally hear the faintest
lowing, a sound that always surprised her, as Rubie’s farm was acres away.
    Â Â Â Â Â For the first while, Elizabeth thought of nothing in particular. Walking was a
way to stanch thought. But she was in love and that meant, for her, that Robbie
was at the tip of most of the